Part of the Furniture

by Mary Wesley

  Juno said, ‘What I can’t make out is why you are so wonderfully kind. It’s unnatural. Nobody in my life has ever behaved like you. I am not in the habit, it shatters me.’

  Robert said, ‘Then stick to practicalities. Where can I buy nappies, Ann?’

  Ann said, ‘Almost anywhere.’

  ‘Then what else? What do babies need?’

  Ann said, ‘Would you mind her using the shawls?’

  ‘Shawls?’

  ‘Cashmere. Your mother’s, they are all there, they were used for you and Evelyn both. Would you mind?’

  ‘Why should I? They are not sacred. What else does she need?’

  Ann said, ‘I have done a bit of knitting.’

  ‘Show us.’

  Ann opened a dresser drawer. ‘These,’ she laid sets of tiny jackets and leggings in front of Juno, ‘might be useful.’

  Juno put her arms round Ann and hugged her. ‘How can I thank you?’

  ‘No need. Your head seemed in the clouds so I made a start, hope you don’t mind?’

  Juno said, ‘Mind? How could I possibly—’

  Ann said, ‘That’s those, then, but—’

  Robert said, ‘What other miracle?’

  ‘There are some things,’ Ann’s expression was curious, ‘never been used, but as they are there, seems silly not to. They seemed all right when I looked at them, but then I thought—’ She hesitated.

  Robert said, ‘Get on with it, Ann, come to the point.’

  Ann said, ‘All right, then. Will you hold the chair while I reach up?’ Setting a chair against the dresser, she climbed up while Robert held it and reached for the top drawer from which she drew a brown paper parcel. ‘It’s some things I sewed once,’ she said. ‘Fashions change, but it’s good flannel, never worn, but if you think not I shan’t mind.’ She opened the parcel and pushed it across the table to Juno, who lifted out six little nightdresses with silk ribbon fastenings beautifully feather-stitched.

  Juno said, ‘They are absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘Then I’d like you to have them.’

  Juno stiffened. ‘I couldn’t—’

  Ann said, ‘Please.’ Recovering her usual tone, she said, ‘They were meant to be used. They are not museum pieces. Before you know it the baby will have been sick on them. And now,’ she said, ‘if you’ve nothing better to do, Juno and Sir, will you stop cluttering my kitchen, I have work to do.’

  Robert took Juno’s arm, led her to the terrace and, indicating a seat, said, ‘Sit down. Look at the view while I catch my breath.’

  Juno did as he asked, looking across the garden to the stretch of moor, the farm and the ripe corn in the valley while the child inside her kicked against its confines. In her mind she dressed it in one of the little nightdresses and wondered what it would be like to hold in her arms, what would it smell like? Beside her Robert let out a long sigh. ‘Oh, the poor woman. We never guessed.’

  Juno looked at him, turning sideways to stare.

  Robert said, ‘We were so full of our own joy, Emma and I. Why Ann lit off to Bradford nobody really knew, she came back. She had married Bert and left almost immediately. She never spoke of her time away; she moved into the house to work. We got the impression she had not been happy, but we were absorbed in our own happiness; we did not question and, like you, she was no talker. But I see it all now.’

  ‘She sewed these lovely clothes for her own baby?’

  ‘Must have done.’

  ‘Lost it? Miscarried? Born dead? It was Bert’s?’

  Robert said, ‘I imagine so. One can’t ask. Too late now. This is her way of telling.’

  ‘She loved Evelyn,’ Juno said.

  ‘And she will love your child if you will let her.’

  Juno exclaimed, ‘My child will be grateful for every scrap of love that comes its way.’ Then she said, ‘I shall be so proud to dress it in those nightdresses.’

  Robert said, ‘You will make up to her for my and Emma’s selfishness.’

  ‘What could you have done?’ Juno snapped. ‘If she had wanted to talk, she would have. She did not waste her love, she spent it on Evelyn.’

  ‘You are shrewd.’

  Then Juno said, ‘She can’t have wanted Bert’s baby, she doesn’t like him.’

  Robert said, ‘True enough,’ and sat on, looking at the land he loved, enjoying a silence that grew between them which he presently broke by asking, ‘Have you a name for your child?’

  Juno said, ‘Inigo.’

  ‘A very good name.’

  ‘And since we are onto babies,’ Juno surprised him, ‘could you tell me what a newborn baby looks like? I have never seen one.’

  And Robert, remembering Evelyn, thought it looks exactly as its father will when he is a very old man, but he said, ‘They look as though they had been soaking in the bath for ever. They look all crinkled. They look very red and very cross and awfully old. Their finger and toenails are as tender as the shells of baby shrimps.’ Juno said, ‘That I shall like, thank you, Robert.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE HORSES PLODDED ROUND the cornfield drawing the reaper, their heads nodding, harnesses creaking and jingling in the still air. Juno could smell their sweat as they went by. Each time they passed, the oblong of uncut wheat in the middle of the field grew smaller, the rabbits crouching in it more vulnerable.

  Several bolder or sillier rabbits had already made a run for it and been snapped up by Jessie and a lurcher from the village. There had been shrill screams of ‘rabbit pie’ from watching children, a cheer when a brace of pheasants whirred up to wing into the wood, and Robert had shouted, ‘Leave her,’ when a hare broke racing, ears flattened along her back, to slip through the hedge, leaving Jessie and her pups frustrated. ‘We have very few hares,’ Robert called to Juno, ‘but the rabbits are a pest.’

  The children from the village were armed with sticks and men not otherwise busy were strategically positioned round the field; now and again Bert, driving the reaper, would let out a whoop and point out a victim. Juno had often witnessed the same scene on the Johnson/Murray farm, had eaten rabbit pie, rabbit stew, rabbit ragout. She had skinned rabbits and handled their slippery bodies, but today there was something about their furry despair which sickened. Even Bert’s aged Nipper, rejuvenated by the tension, was lying in wait and, as she watched, stood up, head cocked, paw raised, to pounce on a harvest mouse. Then it was down his throat like an oyster, chumped, swallowed, gone. Juno struggled to her feet to climb back to the house.

  Priscilla was sitting on the terrace. ‘Come and join me.’ She patted the seat. ‘Tired?’ she asked. ‘It’s very hot.’

  ‘So-so.’ Juno sat, legs apart, easing her back, pushing her hair off her forehead, feeling sweat trickle between her breasts.

  Priscilla said, ‘Such a peaceful rural scene. You’d never think there was a war raging in Europe, would you? Lovely cornfields, aren’t they?’

  Juno said, ‘They make me think of ghettos.’

  ‘Oh?’ Priscilla turned to look at her, ‘How’s that?’

  Juno said, ‘I have been reading an article about ghettos surrounded by troops and the Jews inside, that’s what is happening to the rabbits in the corn.’

  Priscilla said, ‘But my dear! They are the most frightful pest!’

  Juno said, ‘I gather that’s what the Germans say about the Jews.’

  ‘I like your analogy.’ Priscilla quizzed Juno’s face. ‘I hope you inspire your child with a similar philosophy,’ she said. ‘It or he/she won’t be long now. Are you impatient? Are you nervous?’

  Giving nothing away, Juno said, ‘I am not impatient, I just feel ponderous,’ but she thought, I am afraid, and I can’t ask Mrs Villiers what having a baby is like, she is childless. And my mother, who is going through the same process, isn’t here. I am glad of that. I am solo. I admit I am a bit daunted,’ she said.

  ‘Our old doctor is very competent,’ Priscilla exclaimed. ‘He will look after you and they are all p
erfect dears in the Cottage Hospital. I shall come and visit you there.’

  Juno said, ‘It defeats me. Why is everybody so kind?’

  ‘Simple.’ Priscilla smiled. ‘You give Robert and all who care for him something to enjoy.’

  ‘Something other than Evelyn?’

  ‘That’s about it’

  Juno said, ‘I had not thought of myself as enjoyable.’

  ‘Then it is time you did,’ said Priscilla crisply. ‘There, they have finished and here comes Robert. I expect he is in need of a drink. Hullo,’ she said as Robert sat beside her. ‘All over bar the threshing.’

  ‘Yes.’ Robert stretched his long legs. ‘I have arranged for the threshing machine to come next week.’

  ‘As soon as that?’ Priscilla looked surprised.

  Robert said, ‘Might as well get tucked up for the winter.’

  Juno said, ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ and went into the house.

  When Juno was out of earshot, Priscilla said, ‘My word, Robert, that girl has imagination,’ and repeated Juno’s metaphor of the rabbits.

  Robert said, ‘Ah. Humbling. In these blissful surroundings we do not worry enough about what’s going on.’

  ‘And a fat lot of good it would do,’ Priscilla answered. ‘Let us worry about what is under our nose. Your little Juno is not feeling the joys of anticipation usually associated with girls in her condition.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ Robert said. ‘And to be honest, Priss, I worry. That’s why I hurry to get the threshing over. I don’t want anything interfering with that event. I rather wish old Davey’s partner had not gone off to the war, he was a lot more spry.’

  ‘Dr Davey is experienced, don’t fuss.’

  ‘He is not all that agile, he’s getting old.’

  ‘When did agility matter in delivering a baby?’

  Robert laughed, ‘I don’t know, Priss—’

  Priscilla said, ‘You have grown very fond of her, haven’t you?’

  Simply, Robert said, ‘Yes.’ As Juno came from the house with a glass of beer, he said, ‘Thank you, Juno, that is just what I needed.’

  Priscilla watched Robert drink and, while drinking, watch Juno, who had sat again to view the sun sliding behind the distant hills and the shadows lengthen over the cropped fields. Suddenly nervous, Priscilla said she must go, there was much to do at home, she had stayed too long and talked too much, but she talked to conceal the shock of surprise she felt, reading the expression in Robert’s eyes when he watched Juno over the rim of his glass.

  ‘I wonder whether he is aware?’ Priscilla said to Mosley as she let her car freewheel down the hill to save petrol. ‘Thank heavens I have you to talk to,’ she said to the dog. ‘What a mercy the Almighty knew what he was up to when he made animals dumb.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘COMFORTABLE?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Anthony and Hugh stood looking down at Juno where she lay sleepy in the late afternoon sun. ‘Did we wake you?’ Their smiles were affectionate.

  ‘I was counting butterflies on the buddleias. Peacocks and Red Admirals. Have they finished with the threshing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must have woken when the machine stopped; the noise lulled me to sleep. Did you enjoy yourselves?’

  Anthony said, ‘The drama’s enjoyable. Golden grain pouring into sacks, muscly sunburned workmen stripped to the waist—I like those heavy belts they wear to hold up their trousers—the air full of chaff; there’s an earthy satisfaction.’

  ‘I got chaff in my eye, it hurt like hell.’ Hugh sat by Juno on the grass. ‘But it washed out. I have excellent tear-ducts. Yes,’ he said, ‘it was a job well done.’

  ‘And tomorrow back to London?’ Would she miss them?

  ‘Poor us,’ Hugh sighed. ‘That’s the shape of things, and it’s so lovely here, but yes, we must go.’

  ‘And your job still to do.’ Anthony found it impossible to avert his eyes. Juno’s arms and legs were long and slim, her neck fragile but her belly was outrageous, enormous, bulging, vast. ‘Are you really comfortable?’ he questioned as he folded his legs and subsided on the grass.

  ‘I have a cushion under my head and another under my knees, so yes, I am comfortable, at the moment, prone.’

  ‘But otherwise? Walking about?’ Anthony was interested. How did she keep her balance? She looked grotesque. All that weight.

  ‘Can’t say I am. The question of balance is peculiar but it’s not for ever, not like a fat man carrying a big stomach, paying in perpetuity for overeating and drinking.’

  Hugh said, ‘Gross, disgusting. Extremely unfetching.’

  ‘And you are after all only paying for your pleasure,’ said Anthony comfortingly.

  Juno said, ‘Is that what it was?’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘So that was pleasure.’

  ‘Juno!’ they exclaimed in distress. ‘We had assumed—we imagined—well, we thought you had had a wonderful time—a marvellous experience—we certainly thought,’ their voices were earnest, ‘of pleasure of a subliminal sexual nature, that kind of pleasure.’

  Juno said, ‘I don’t know anything about that, but then I know so little about anything. I have never learned.’

  ‘Juno!’ they said. ‘You disappoint us. Are you sure? Not pulling our legs?’

  ‘Sure of what?’

  ‘That there was no pleasure?’ They were frowning now, aghast, disappointed.

  ‘I can’t honestly say that there was.’ Juno’s tone was flat.

  ‘How awful.’ Hugh was shocked.

  ‘You will simply have to learn.’ Anthony was censorious.

  ‘Who from?’ Juno grinned. ‘From whom?’ she teased. Neither would volunteer.

  ‘Robert, of course! Robert will know, Robert would teach you!’ The young men collapsed into helpless laughter. ‘For we can’t, sweetie, we belong to another persuasion, as you must be aware.’

  Juno, laughing too, said, ‘I was too discreet to think about it, though the idea had occurred. Why suggest Robert?’

  ‘Why?’ cried Hugh. ‘Silly girl, he is the most dishy man there has ever been. For one, you should hear Priscilla on the subject. She is the neighbourhood expert on Robert in love.’

  Anthony said, ‘Be accurate, Hugh, you must have noted that she swears he has never been in love since Emma. Lover, maybe, bed, yes, great booster for a girl’s morale, a great cheerer-upper, but never in love, absolutely not.’

  ‘But she and he—’

  ‘Yes, yes, but she knows and he knows it was to repair the old ego when her husband had strayed—’

  ‘And the husband?’

  ‘Oh, I expect he knew, they were all friends.’

  Juno said, ‘Wow.’

  Anthony said, ‘I expect our Juno thinks Robert is too old, or she is fixated on Evelyn.’

  ‘No!’ Juno protested. ‘Robert appears much younger than Evelyn did.’

  ‘And he is alive, which Evelyn is not,’ said Hugh, dissolving into irrepressible giggles. ‘Oh, we shouldn’t laugh,’ he yelped as Juno and Anthony, infected, joined in. ‘Oh, Juno, look, your baby is laughing too, or it’s protesting at the disturbance. It’s dancing a tango in there. Isn’t that dreadfully uncomfortable?’ He stopped laughing and watched Juno’s heaving stomach with fascination.

  Juno said, ‘Sometimes it is. Perhaps it’s letting me know it wants to come out.’

  Anthony said, ‘I bet that’s it. Now that is something you are going to learn, sweet girl; it’s called the mystery of birth. It won’t be long now, will it? You must promise to tell us all about it, every detail, when it’s over.’

  Juno said, ‘I certainly will not,’ and again the three of them laughed as they lay on the grass on an Indian summer afternoon with the warm sun slanting down on their youth and high spirits, the air still full of bees, butterflies sipping the buddleia.

  ‘Oh!’ Juno wiped her eyes. ‘You silly fools, you make me laugh, you make me happy,’ and she was happy lying on her bac
k on the cool grass with cushions under her head and knees, the unknown character dancing in her womb, Jessie coming out of the house to see what was going on, licking her ear, making a draught with her tail. She was happy hearing Robert calling, ‘Ann asks whether you lot are going to loll there all evening or whether you want some supper?’

  Juno shouted, ‘Tell her we are coming,’ and began to struggle up onto her feet.

  Anthony, helping her, whispered, ‘Promise you will ask Robert about sexual pleasure, promise us that.’

  And Juno said she would think about it, laughing, for she was happy in the way that is remembered in old age for no discernible reason.

  At some moment during that golden afternoon, in another part of the country where Jonty and Francis in their final week of training were practising with live ammunition, some of it exploded, blinding Francis and blowing him off his feet, so that in spite of massive injections of morphine he died in agony hours later, leaving Jonty to travel alone into the actuality of war.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  HAVING REPORTED COPPLESTONE’S FAULTY telephone from the Post Office, Robert hurried back to his car. The village was empty.

  People were staying indoors; the storm was growing more violent with a rising wind and black rain clouds sweeping in from the west. As he drove out of the village the rain came in sheets and even between high hedges gusts of wind made the car swerve. The autumn gale had come early while the trees were still in leaf, roaring in from the Western Approaches, sweeping hungrily inland, ripping up the valley, crashing through resistant branches, whipping twigs and leaves onto the road and to clog his windscreen; twice he was forced to stop and clear the detritus by hand, his fingers clumsy and cold. He cursed the weather as he leaned against the wind, catching the eye of his dog on the back seat, soothing her as he got back into the car. ‘It’s all right, I’ll have us home in no time.’ He drove on between hedges chiselled by the wind to lean permanently east, but now they flicked back and forth, demented. He was reminded of his mother brushing his hair when he was a child, ‘Your hair is thick as a hedge and more unruly.’ A broken branch blocked the road; he stopped to drag it to one side, then squeezed past, barely clearing the ditch.